Crooked Teeth
by me malum
Summary: USUK twoshot. Even when they fought it and ignored it, there was a link bewteen the two nations that wouldn't break.
1. you can't find nothing at all

In true Hetalia fashion, although the first scene is portayed in canon, I've taken liberties and it is not a word-for-word replication. The rest might as well be blatantly AU because it depicts scenes of WWII without the involvement of deserted islands. All historical details are correct to my knowledge; correct me if there's something wrong. Human names are used; a personal preference when I wrote this.

Largely inspired by Death Cab For Cutie's _Crooked Teeth_. In light of that, you can see my creative titling.

Warning for potentially sensitive issues. Not much here, but in chapter two when the modern parts start. I will state here and now that I am not making any kind of point by writing this fic other than I think that England and America are cute together.

One issue with parenthesis about three-quarters of the way down. In the letter, _-word-_ is meant to be a strikethrough. Like it's been crossed out on the paper.

Disclaimer- heh, I wish. Edited 18/6/2012- it was about bloody time- cosmetics and grammar, minor re-wordings.

Onwards for fic. Hope 'tis enjoyed.

* * *

_4/7/1776. America._

The battlefield froze. Arthur locked eyes with Alfred across the barrel of his musket.

His hands started shaking, and it wasn't from the cold.

With a scream, Arthur threw the musket to the ground. "Damn it, I can't! Why can't I pull the trigger?" He fell to his knees, head clasped in his hands and tears blending with the raindrops.

Alfred looked down at his mentor, and felt the sadness rise inside of him where he'd once loved the older country like a son did his father. He felt tears pricking at his own eyes, but refused to let them fall.

"Say it," he whispered, voice lost in the wind. He cleared his throat, and tried again. "Say it!"

Arthur raised his head slowly, green eyes dim. Alfred knew how much he was hurting, but couldn't let this go.

"Do you surrender, _England_?" He asked clearly, with deliberate emphasis.

Arthur remained silent, staring up at his colony. His soon-to-be former colony. His adopted son. His, perhaps, greatest creation- and therefore greatest failure.

He knew he was still crying; the tears were hot on his cheeks whereas the rain was cool. Alfred still looked so young, so inexperienced as he stood there disarmed and soaked to the skin.

It was one distinction he could make. The last twist he could add to the God-damned war. Mechanically, Arthur made himself answer the other country's question.

"Yes, America." Arthur paused and gathered the remains of his pride. On his knees, there wasn't much left to collect. "_I_ surrender."

Because _America_ was standing there disarmed yet still victorious. Because _America_ hadn't_ won _the battle, or even the ongoing war.

Merely because, faced with the options that were: shoot Alfred or lose, _Arthur_ had chosen to lose.

He had failed his country, his monarchy and his soldiers, all for the sake of an empty hole in his heart.

He hung his head against the American celebrations and let the tears silently fall.

* * *

_Richmond, Virginia. Letter dated 3/12/1860._

_Dear Arthur,_

_I know you still nurse the anger from nearly a century ago. I'm not going to apologise for that._

_I don't know why I'm doing this, really. I figure I won't get a reply. Though... it would be nice._

_It's just... once, I must have been really small still, I heard Francis talking about your civil wars. About what it took for you to get through them._

_People in the know are careful not to say too much around me. But I hear things sometimes, and I get scared. Really scared, so that it's making me sick, worse than when I had to eat your cooking._

_I say one year. I think there's going to be civil war. It's terrifying._

_If I asked, would you help me?_

_Alfred._

* * *

_London, England. Letter dated 5/3/1866._

_Mr Jones,_

_You survived. What more do you need?_

_Sincerely,_

_Arthur Kirkland._

* * *

When the letter came, only his monarch's order stopped him throwing it into the fire. Arthur had been forced to open it in his ruler's presence, to make sure he actually read it and didn't just cast it aside.

_Dear Arthur,_ had made him start. By what right did the brat address him so familiarly?

_Though... it would be nice._ He snorted. The boy remained hopelessly optimistic, it seemed.

_I get scared. _Arthur paused, and reread the last sentence. _I ('m) scared._

_Would you help me?_

Arthur crumpled the letter in his fist and strode from the room. _Now _he_ knows how it feels to be betrayed._

* * *

He waited. Every time a courier made it into Richmond, Alfred would be among the rest of his people, eagerly hoping to have _his _name called out. Every time, his hope sunk a bit further as everyone _but_ him appeared to receive mail from their nearest and dearest.

Every time he ventured into the crowd, he heard more and more whispers, accusations, proclamations.

He grew more and more fearful for his Southern states, some in particular: Virginia, where he'd been staying for the last few years, which seemed to be in the thick of it all, and the Carolinas, which were more and more outspoken every week. He had begun to hate the words 'Confederacy' and 'secession', even when previously the latter had provoked feelings of great pride.

"_I'm seceding, from you, England! You can't stop me!"_

The words created an entirely new feeling when he was the one being screamed at- by the part of himself tied to his Southern people. It was the little voice in the back of his head, the _rebel_, the one that always got him in trouble pre-independence.

He decided early on in 1861 that it was a good idea to return to the North, to see what was happening in Boston and New York.

He realised the whispers were just as vicious. And then, in a few short months, they were no longer whispers. He was thrown into another war, this time by Lincoln's will, but he was against _his own people_.

It had taken two years of fighting to stop himself throwing up after a battle.

It had taken another two to make him hope again, that there might be an outcome that didn't leave him broken.

On the victory of the USA over the Confederacy, four years later, he had almost smiled. But only until the courier had come through the camp, and once again left him letterless.

* * *

"Mr Jones?"

The voice disturbed the blond reading at his desk with glasses perched on his nose. He blinked, checked the page number and only then looked up to see who had called him. "Yes?" he asked, not recognising the person.

"Letter for you," the man said, holding out an envelope. "Postage mark from London."

Alfred blinked again. And stared. The man was beginning to think the nation had been damaged in the war after all, when he leapt to his feet and covered the distance to the door in seconds. "Let me see it!" Alfred demanded, suddenly like a child.

"Here, take it," the man shoved the letter into grasping hands and left the nation to it. But something inside him yelled, look back. See what you've delivered that means so much to your country.

Although not normally a superstitious man (it was a dangerous thing in these times), he turned and glanced around the door frame, expecting to see America smiling, perhaps with a hand clasped to his chest, or something similarly sickening.

But the nation was crumpled on the floor, surrounded by small pieces of paper. As the man watched, America methodically gathered every scrap into a pile, before hurling that pile into the fireplace.

Uncomfortable, the man drew back from the scene. He pretended not to hear the quiet cries.

* * *

_Paris, France. Letter dated 22/1/1941._

Mon Angleterre_,_

_Allow me to be among the first to call you a royal idiot. _Non_, I doubt I am the first, I expect it has been said many times already._

_We _need_ his help. My people have already fallen, and despite your confidence in your pilots I cannot believe that you will keep the Axis at bay forever. Don't let your routing of Italy go to your head; he is the most useless of the trio._

_I am sending this via secret courier. I imagine that if caught, he will lose his life. So let that impress upon you the seriousness of the situation: one too great to be influenced by petty hurts from centuries past._

_Here and now, we need his help. If you called, he would answer._

_Francis._

* * *

_North Africa. Letter dated 12/12/1941._

_You bastard, Francis._

_Don't presume to impose _your_ weaknesses upon _me_. England will never be conquered without his consent so long as one Englishman still breathes._

_We have beaten that German wanker back once before and we will do so again._

_I have no idea how you are getting your news nor what sort of news that might be, so I will tell you now: _he_ has declared war on Japan in retribution for Pearl Harbour. As per Churchill's orders, I have also done so. Like any good ally should._

_Don't even think of smiling. It was simply orders, end of thought._

_We do not need to talk, we do not need to write and we do not need to forgive each other. Old hurts are not so easily forgotten, wine bastard, shouldn't _we_ know this better than anyone?_

_I'm no longer 'your England'. Keep your damn pronouns to yourself._

* * *

And for a while, the system held: while they were posted on different fronts; while the communications network developed by the Allies was new and undetected by the Axis. In meetings, they either ignored each other or started a blazing argument, which more often than not led to Arthur storming out and getting roaring drunk with his off-duty soldiers.

Alfred, more often than not, was left to brood in his general's tent and to wonder where the hell it had all gone wrong.

* * *

_North Africa. Letter dated 17/10/1942._

_Mr Jones,_

_My Minister requests your country's assistance in the North Africa advance. Given that the nations' network is more secure than the Allies', he asked me to relay this request to you and through you, your own generals._

_Regards,_

_Arthur Kirkland._

* * *

_Letter dated 5/11/1942._

_Mr Kirkland,_

_Our General Eisenhower is en route._

_'Regards',_

_Mr Jones._

* * *

They hadn't expected to meet face-to-face, despite now sharing a frontier. On the whole (maybe from their subconscious lead), the Americans didn't mix much with their English allies.

Alfred was the first to move. He punched Arthur on his left cheek. The smaller nation (who had been idly wondering when he'd started looking _up_ to his former colony) reeled with the blow and groaned, but said nothing. His head was woozy from the whiskey he'd been drinking with his troops.

"Damn you!" Alfred hissed. "Damn you and your country and your whole damned war!" He spun on his heel and left the tent that Arthur had inadvertently stumbled into while more intoxicated than was good for him.

* * *

_Letter dated 1/3/1944_

_Dear Sirs,_

_I respectfully request to be moved to the Normandy attack force. I believe my presence there could greatly hearten our men._

_Yours Faithfully,_

_Arthur Kirkland._

* * *

The Prime Minister put the letter down, frowning. Yet, the nation made a good point. Anyone with a basic grasp of strategy could see the desperation of this tactic; somebody was needed to lift moral. And countries died with much more difficultly than mortal men.

Still frowning, he signed 'approved' at the bottom of the letter, and handed it back to the silent herald. He didn't question why his nation had _really_ made such a request.

* * *

_Rome, Italy. Letter dated 1/6/1944._

_What the hell, Iggy?_

_I knew you'd left for another front, but I didn't think you'd be desperate enough to get away from me that you'd volunteer for Normandy._

_Do you really hate me that much?_

* * *

_(Paris, France. Letter dated 22/9/1944._

L'Amerique_,_

_I was uncertain whether to send the enclosed _communiqué_ on or not... then decided that no matter how bad, you've retained enough of _moi_ to want to hear it from him._

_Francis.)_

_Paris, France. Letter dated 18/9/1944._

Don't_ call me that. _

_You are labouring under the mistake that I actually care about anything concerning you. I am past hate, past caring, past giving a bloody toss about anything you say or do or think, if such an action even occurs in your head._

_You are also under the impression that my entire world revolves around you. Let me correct you in the easiest way possible: it doesn't. _

_If anything I have said is unclear to you, ask somebody who_ does _care._

_And Francis, if you dare censor this, I will -_

Alfred put the letter down on the table. He knew Arthur hadn't ever really forgiven him. He knew the other nation would be hurting from the war, in which he'd probably suffered more than Alfred had, being that much closer to Germany.

He knew that, to make matters even worse, the V2 bombs recently developed by Germany had killed civilians on Arthur's home soil.

And most hurtful of all, he knew without a doubt that this letter had been seared into Arthur's heart and soul years before it had ever been set to paper.

* * *

For the first time in some centuries, Arthur felt ashamed of his actions (not that he'd ever admit it).

He remembered thinking the words many times in the past. He remembered thinking how nice it would be one day to let it all out and tell the American exactly what he truly felt. It was... liberating.

Then he remembered feeling so regretful and sad and _lonely_ when there'd been no reply to his last letter, even if (there wasn't any doubt of it being anything else) it would only have been to yell straight back at him.

Even as he thought about it, his mind was selecting the words and his hand was reaching for paper and pen...

* * *

_Berlin, Germany. Letter dated 9/5/1945._

_If this has been thrown straight into the fire, I understand._

_And you should know that if that's the case, you are more like me than either of us wish you to be. If _that's _the case, this will be much easier to say._

_By the way, if this has been thrown in the fire, there will be an exact copy sent to you again in a month's time. This has to be said (much to my disgust)._

Alfred checked the handwriting against another letter he'd received from his once-patron. The letters matched; it _was _from Arthur.

He wondered if the nation had been drunk with victory while writing it.

_Above all else, I strive to be a gentleman. And for your assistance these past few years, I owe you a most horrifically large debt. Not just for your weaponry, but for your medical advances which saved so many of my people on _that_ day._

Alfred thought back to D-day, when he'd waited anxiously by the radio for the casualty lists and prayed that Arthur's stubbornness in practically every aspect of his life would be enough to see the nation through the fighting.

This had been before he'd received the bastard's reply, however.

_I __didn't know how to put this without sounding cold and formal. So... you should know, that in light of my debt,_

_If you call, I will answer._

_Arthur Kirkland._

* * *

_Alamogordo, New __Mexico. Letter dated 31/7/1945._

_-Mr Kirkland- -Iggy- Arthur,_

_-I swear you've got some sorta bipolar disease-_

_D'ya know, I checked the handwriting and everything when I got that? I didn't know what to make of it._

_I'm not gonna call for you. Not now, not ever, 'cause I want to ask this instead:_

_I know, back then, you weren't going to ask for my help. I know you only declared war on Japan because Churchill told you to (I was sorry to hear he'd gone, I respected him)._

_Thank him for me. You wouldn't've -written that- said anything otherwise, and then we'd still be ignoring each other._

_But what _I'm _trying to say, is, I know_ you know _what it's like to follow orders against your will._

_Remember that, please?_

_That's how I want 'our gentlemens' honour' to be repaid._

_Alfred Jones._

Alfred set down the pen and wondered whether he should send the letter or not. He'd returned home, mindful that while the Europeans had their victory, he had an issue to settle with Japan.

And then Truman had dropped a figurative bomb on him.

Actually, the bomb was literal. That was the worst part of it.

But. Loyalty to himself before anyone else. He was bound by his leader.

_But... if this works half as well as he's hoping, it'll be... beyond awful._ Alfred frowned, mind made up. He stood up and ran to catch the evening post collection.

* * *

He ignored the sidelong glances and whispers. He didn't want to hear them.

The countries' world meeting was unusually subdued. While their leaders were talking of peace and new dawns together in another room, they had congregated without a real reason except to compare war hurts and settle the last arguments.

Everyone was avoiding him. They stared and muttered behind raised hands when they thought he wasn't looking, but he _knew_ they were talking about him.

"Because they've never had _their _government do _anything_ so _horrible_," he growled. Germany had been under his Fuhrer's orders to create a mass genocide, and yet they weren't being so wary around him.

Unable to stand it any longer, Alfred rose and left the room. Arthur didn't glance his way as he passed the older nation, and it was especially painful with his memory of a phone call on the 16th August.

_"Mr Jones? Call for you on line 1."_

_"Patch it through." He waited for the dial tone to subside. "Alfred Jones speaking."_

_"_Mr Jones_. I wanted to congratulate your president on his victory." The voice was sharp, acerbic even._

_"Iggy!" Alfred shot up in his seat, swinging his feet back off the desk as his did so._

_"_Don't _call me that. For _God's_ sake, don't call me that right now."_

_"Ig- Art-" Alfred stumbled, wondering what to say. "Mr Kirkland-"_

_"Atomic fission, Alfred? The death tolls are still rising, still reporting more and more people killed by just one weapon!"_

_"It wasn't me!" Alfred used his only defence, pitiful as it was. "I had no idea what they were developing!"_

_"Have you even seen Japan since you attacked him? He's still in a coma. China is furious with you."_

_Alfred's temper snapped. "And _you've _never put any of us in a coma? _You've _always known when to stop before we can't take it anymore?" He remembered the tiny countries he'd seen once in passing, little children with dark skin and old eyes, South Africa, Nigeria, Uganda..._

_He heard no reply for some time. The pone buzzed lowly in the background._

_"Apparently not," Arthur said, voice soft. "I'm sorry Alfred, I just had to know."_

_"Huh? Mr- Iggy, what are you-"_

_"Goodbye."_

_And the older nation hung up on him._

"Alfred! Damn it Alfred, wait!"

The nation paused, before deciding to ignore Arthur's order. It wouldn't be the first time, after all. He gave a wry smile at the thought.

"Alfred! Get your backstabbing, seceding _arse_ back here _now_!"

Alfred turned, furious, and found Arthur much closer than he'd thought the other nation was. They were barely a foot apart.

"Backstabbing?" He echoed, disbelief evident. "You stabbed me first!" In a way, he was glad for the distraction, the comforting familiarity of arguing with England.

"I made your laws. I'm allowed to change them." Arthur shook his head. "Was. Anyway, that's by-the-by for now."

_That_ shut Alfred up like nothing else. His jaw gaped open in surprise. "Say what?" Iggy was letting it go?

"Look- the phone call. I needed to know- I needed to check- I had to know you hadn't wanted any part of it." Arthur spoke in a rush, words tumbling out.

Alfred stood mute, thinking. Then he whispered, "How could you think I might have _wanted_ any part of that?"

"I- You wanted to win, and it was the easiest way for you-"

"I-!" Alfred grabbed Arthur by the wrist and pulled him into a small alcove. "I've told my president I'd have no part of another strike. He wouldn't agree to destroy them, but he, and any and all successors will be told that the moment they authorise an atomic strike, I'm gone." He shook his head cynically. "You're right; it probably saved hundreds of American lives... but... I can't explain it. There's just something... wrong... about them." _They feel so... unheroic_, he'd thought, but he'd be damned if he said that out loud.

He was supposed to be the righteous winner; it shouldn't feel so _tainted_.

Arthur had an eyebrow raised. It almost looked like a fringe. "You could take over the world with half a dozen of these bombs. Nobody else has them."

"Maybe that's it. Maybe it's the power." Alfred's voice was only a murmur, and Arthur strained to hear it. He was abruptly reminded of the child Alfred had been, playing with toy soldiers over a rug made to resemble a world map.

Suddenly, Alfred grinned, completely dispelling the seriousness of the situation. "You know me, Iggy. I'm too lazy by half to rule the world. I'd just make you rule it for me."

Arthur blinked at the sudden change in mood, automatically muttering, "Don't call me that." He realised Alfred didn't want to talk anymore, and left it there. "I'm getting too old to rule the world _again,_" he continued, fixing a smug grin on his own face.

Alfred smiled, an open, honest expression that made Arthur's heart clench. Yes, he'd known all along why everything between them had hurt so much.

"Thanks, Arthur," he said, before turning and walking away.

Arthur watched him go, smiling. He returned to the meeting room and took his seat next to Francis. The bearded nation opened his mouth.

"Don't say it," Arthur warned him.

So Francis smirked instead, and returned to his conversation with a morose Feliciano on how exactly to make his 'Doitsu' forgive him. If the Italian had the backbone to do half of what the Frenchman was suggesting, he'd give up all rights to his overseas territories.

* * *

Six days of hoping and wondering later (had they really understood what each other meant?), when Arthur got a short message in the post from the States, he had to smile.

_I'm glad we're not so alike after all._

It was so unbelievably _Alfred_, self-congratulating and rude and impossible to be truly angry at.

He made sure his reply emphasised the necessity of two people being needed to mend a broken bridge.


	2. if there was nothing there all along

So, this grew to be a damn cute monster. Seriously, I think it gave me cavities. Major fluff warning.

**Warning** for sensitive triggers- namely, 9/11 and for the Brits, 7/7. I am _not_ making any kind of statement. To my knowledge, details are correct (except obvious fictional accounts that I've made up for the story). Also, warning for minor angst.

There's the same strikethrough issue towards the end. _-word-_ means the word should be crossed out.

Disclaimer- heh, I wish. Also edited 18/6/2012- similar things as chapter 1.

Shout outs for the first chapter: Tallisa of Swallow's Crest, LadyKnightOfHollyrose, delyrical, fan (), Blue Seer, Yumetsukihime and Ame Mika'zuki for reviews and faves: all much appreciated :D

I hope you enjoy chapter 2 as much.

* * *

_11/9/2001. London._

Arthur dropped his teacup, and didn't wince even as the hot liquid splashed over his feet and ruined his carpet.

His heart hurt though. His heart ached more than any physical pain ever could.

He didn't bother letting his minister know where he'd be, but simply ordered his private jet to fuel up for a cross-Atlantic trip and left without even packing a bag.

His abandoned TV screen flashed from image to image of broken rubble and frightened, disbelieving faces as they watched the Twin Towers burn above their heads.

* * *

Alfred felt like a mess. He sat in a heap at the bottom of his stairs, unable to get up since he'd forced the last well-wisher out of his house. Tear tracks ran down his cheeks. He heard a scraping in the lock but didn't look up as the door opened, knowing only one person who had their own key.

"Alfred?"

He was right. It was good ol' Arthur, here to help and save the day. But wait, shouldn't that be _his_ job? The hero's job? Shouldn't he be out there, helping them, his people, doing _something_, anything but sitting at the bottom of the stairs and crying for someone to help _him_, save _him_ for once?

"Oh, Alfred," he heard Arthur whisper, and felt the arm go around his shoulders. Arthur sat next to him, drawing him close and just _holding _him. He didn't try to make the nation talk, or cry, or 'let it all out now', just sat there and offered body warmth and a shoulder to lean on.

Alfred felt his shoulders shaking, but he refused to cry again. "It... it hurts," he mumbled, face buried in Arthur's jacket. "Even civil war... even _seceding_ didn't hurt so bad as this..."

Arthur just tightened his grip on the nation's shoulders.

"It's not the pain... I swear it ain't... the horror, the _hatred_, they feel. Why bother for them, Artie? Why give a _fuck_ for them when they don't?"

He sounded like he'd just seen the real world for the first time. So naive, despite the power and responsibility he'd gained in the last fifty years.

"Why, Artie? Why, damn it, just _why_?"

His tears were falling again, darkening the green of Arthur's coat. Arthur reached out with his free hand, taking one of Alfred's in his. The older nation frowned, feeling the heat of it. "You're burning up," he remarked, before he could stop himself.

Alfred raised his head weakly to look him in the eye. Arthur flinched. "I'm sorry Alfred, I shouldn't have-"

But Alfred was chuckling through his tears before breaking into full-on laughter. Arthur felt sick as he heard the hysteria in the nation's voice, and decided then and there that he'd shut up until there was something good to say again. Eventually, Alfred's laughter trailed off into hiccoughs, and silence.

They sat together in silence at the foot of the stairs, hands clasped and one with his arm holding the other's head to his chest. As the sun set, Arthur forced himself to stretch his legs out.

"Come on," he said to Alfred. "Let's get you to-"

He stopped speaking with a sigh as he realised the younger nation was asleep. "How the hell am I going to get you upstairs?" Arthur asked no one in particular. Alfred had at least half a head in height over him.

But as he bent down and lifted him into his arms, he found the nation was lighter than he appeared. Light enough to worry him. _It's not just the attack,_ he realised. _It's everything he's been trying to do._

He wondered if he could persuade his minister to take more of an active role in helping America in the Near East. Wondered if he could take some of the burden for Alfred.

He carefully carried his sleeping friend up the stairs and placed him on the first bed he found.

Arthur stared down into Alfred's troubled face, considering the American's question in a different light. He shook his head ruefully. The _why_ in 'why was he doing this?' was the only thing he _did_ know.

He settled on a chair in the corner so Alfred wouldn't wake up alone.

* * *

Arthur came round slowly, aware of the facts that his neck hurt and he couldn't get up. He'd only expected one of them.

He opened his eyes slowly, and found himself with a lapful of trembling American.

Immediately he brought his arms up to hold the nation. "You're supposed to be in bed," he said softly.

"Didn't wanna be alone," Alfred mumbled, tightening his grip on Arthur's shirt.

"That's why I'm here, idiot," Arthur replied. He shifted, trying to get the blood flowing back to his legs. Alfred took the hint, standing up and to the side.

But he kept his hand entwined in Arthur's collar, tugging insistently.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" he asked. Alfred _couldn't _be saying what he thought he was saying.

"I don't wanna be alone right now. I just wanna sleep and forget." Alfred's eyes were becoming shiny.

Arthur stood too, so they were at a more equal height. "This isn't something you can just sweep under the carpet," he said gently, not wanting to upset the nation but knowing he had to hear it.

Alfred nodded, too quickly. "I know, I know! But that can wait 'til tomorrow, right?"

Arthur sighed, but against his better judgement, he sat down on the bed and let Alfred rest his head in his lap. He curled a hand into the blond hair, running his fingers through the strands.

"Mmn, nice," Alfred mumbled. "Stay at least 'til I fall asleep?"

Arthur would've stayed forever if Alfred had asked him to. The younger nation just hadn't realised it.

* * *

Shutting the door gently, Arthur left the nation sleeping and made his way downstairs again. He found paper and pen after only ten minutes of searching.

_I've borrowed a change of clothes. Don't worry, I'll clean them and give them back before I go. I've just popped out for some food; I should be back very soon._

_Arthur_

He grabbed his coat and returned upstairs to leave the note on a pillow, where the American would hopefully find it.

As he was leaving, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. _His clothes look ridiculous with my coat_, he thought absently.

He glanced at the wardrobe. _I might as well. I'm already borrowing his other stuff._ He pulled out one of Alfred's hoodies and slipped it over the T-shirt. It was too big for him, of course, but it was warm enough against the windy day. And the lining was soft. And smelt of _Alfred_, the scent of sweet, raw sugarcane against coffee.

Arthur blinked, and gave himself a mental slap.

_I feel like an over-emotional girlfriend_, he groused as he crept back across the room.

"Mmpf," he heard from the bed. Arthur turned, and saw Alfred stirring, nose wrinkling as his hair tickled it.

Without thinking, Arthur reached over and brushed the strands away. Alfred stilled, and for a second Arthur thought he'd woken him. But the American's breathing evened out, and he moved his hand back.

Arthur smiled softly; the sight was too cute. He bent over and pressed his lips lightly to Alfred's forehead, before standing and finally leaving on his errand.

Alfred opened his eyes to slits and watched Arthur leave.

_Had he just..? _And wearing his clothes?

He heard something crinkle next to his ear. Reaching up a hand, he read the note the older nation had left.

"Still doesn't know how to address a letter," he noted.

Arthur had kissed him.

His stomach felt weird. Alfred figured he was hungry.

He hoped Arthur was bringing hamburgers.

* * *

"Are you sure you're okay?" Arthur asked for the _nth_ time.

"I'm. Fine." Alfred all but growled. "Get on the damn plane, _Mom_."

Arthur frowned, but picked up his hand luggage. "Don't butcher my language. Your accent isn't that atrocious." His gaze softened as he continued. "I know it's been three weeks, but if you need anything, just call and I'll come back-"

Alfred laughed, but it wasn't as light or carefree as it once would have been. "I'm sure England wants to see some of her nation again." His eyes glanced at the ground.

"Hey." Arthur caught the American's wrist. "I've been away for longer stretches."

Alfred smiled, but shook his head. "No. But thanks. I don't know- I don't _wanna_ know- what I'd've done without you this time."

"Anytime," Arthur said easily. He meant every syllable. Then he smirked. "I don't know what you would have done without me all along."

Alfred's brow furrowed. Then he smiled brightly. "Nah, a hero never changes. I'd be every bit a leader as I am now!"

More than anything else, that reassured Arthur enough to get on the plane. With a final wave, he climbed the boarding steps.

* * *

_7/7/2005. 14.00. London Heathrow Airport. _

Alfred's plane touched down at Heathrow with barely a delay. He strode out, wondering where Arthur would be waiting for him.

He wondered if the nice English couple on the plane with him was alright. Halfway through the flight, the woman had burst into tears and the man hadn't looked much better.

He looked around the terminal, but couldn't see eyebrow or hair of the nation. His eyes fell on the TV screen in the corner, and figured if he was going to wait he might as well be entertained.

But they were playing the news. Alfred frowned. What was it about England that made its inhabitants so _boring_ at times?

Then the studio cut to the scene of the story.

_Broken rubble and smoke._

His own memory fed off the fresh images.

_Twin Towers. Screams. Explosions and Pain._

"Although now some hours old, these images may be distressing to someone seeing them for the first time," The stereotypical BBC-English accent droned, over voicing the video.

_Arthur!_

Alfred spun and ran for the exit, hailing a taxi the moment he was out on the concrete.

* * *

The door was unlocked. Considering this was the house of Arthur Kirkland, the epitome (hell, the _personification_) of England and paranoiac extraordinaire, it was worrying.

Alfred shut the door, wary of what to expect. How much alcohol would Arthur have in the house, anyway?

The American was well aware that on 9/11, he'd completely shut down, like a puppet with his strings cut.

But Arthur? Arthur would be out for revenge, and failing that, to get roaring blind drunk. Hell, Arthur'd probably go for both, and not necessarily in that order.

"Arthur?" he called optimistically. Nobody answered.

Alfred cursed, and left the empty house. "Where's the stupid idiot gone?"

* * *

_9.00, London (5 hours previous)._

Arthur moved as in a dream. Had done ever since the scream.

The voices in his mind were yelling at him, shrieking at him to wake up and get a bloody hold of himself.

But he _was_ awake. This was reality.

He could always hear the background noise in his head. It sounded like the bustle of a busy city, reassuring him that all was well and life was going on for his people.

But then the silence had started. Then the silence had started _screaming_, and he realised everything inside him was quiet.

Something was wrong. Arthur had got up from his sofa, when the pain had driven him to the floor.

_Burning and falling and breaking and-_

It was deep in his core. Just below his heart. _London_.

Had someone targeted the royal family? The Queen?

He became aware of his surroundings again as a voice pierced through his stupor.

"We interrupt this program to bring you an emergency broadcast."

Arthur turned his head to watch the radio. Which was rather pointless, considering all he could do was listen with growing horror.

"Approximately five minutes ago, three bombs were detonated on the London Underground Circle and Piccadilly lines-"

It had been five minutes already? It felt like five seconds, and five centuries.

He had planned to meet Alfred today. When had they planned that?

"-casualties are expected, but not yet confirmed-"

All thoughts of previous plans left his head.

Someone had struck against him, and his people. And this someone was too cowardly to do so on an honest battlefield.

On autopilot, Arthur pulled on the first jumper he found to try and warm himself up (why was he so cold with London burning inside him?) and closed the front door behind him.

He walked his way to the nearest underground station, only to find it barred by crowds and policemen. Ruthlessly, he shoved his way through, only to be held at bay by a barricade.

"But I need to get there!" He heard someone shouting. "I need to _see_ it!" The voice broke on the last words, and from the pain in his throat Arthur realised it was his.

There was a hand on his back. "Easy there, lad." A gruff voice spoke into his ear. "You got someone special on the tubes today? I'm sure they're fine."

Arthur fell to his knees, feeling tears well up in his eyes. "But not everyone," he whispered. "Not everyone, and every _one _of them is special to me."

The tears spilled over, and ran down his cheeks.

* * *

Arthur forced himself to keep walking (almost home again), swiping at his cheeks with the cuff of his hoodie. _Hoodie?_ The only hoodie he owned was the one he'd swiped from Alfred four years ago.

It was covered in dust now, and blood. Most of it wasn't his.

_If he couldn't get there by underground, he'd get there on foot._

_He'd left the crowded station, hoping to find some space. He'd failed; the streets were packed and he was being jostled this way and that in the crush of people. Elbows were the weapons of choice. He knew he'd have a few choice bruises tomorrow, not that they'd faze him in comparison._

_Finally, forty-five minutes later, it felt like he was getting somewhere. He'd just reached Tavistock Square._

_He froze. The screaming had started again. _

_Movement to the left caught his attention, and he focused on it. A man reaching under his coat-was he trying to reach a loved one with his mobile?_

_It wasn't a phone he pulled from his pocket._

_Arthur refused to think it, refused to recognise the object as a detonator._

_It was like a story. _

_The man looked around him, and locked eyes with the country. Arthur was sure his horror was plain to see. _

_The man narrowed his eyes, before the corners of his mouth curled up in a chillingly open, _happy _smile._

_The silence was deafening, even amongst the crowd._

_Arthur tried to say something, anything-_

_The man pressed the button._

_The blast blew Arthur backwards, and he threw a hand up automatically to shield his eyes._

_He felt himself hit the ground and gasped for breath. Debris rained down around him, over him. He sat up, barely thinking._

_The dead surrounded him, and Arthur knew he'd got away with scratches only because he was so hard to kill. He mourned for his lost Englishmen, inwardly; before he let himself fall apart, he had a task to do._

_But the bomber laid a few metres away, dead. Arthur stared, uncomprehending. Then it dawned on him, he could do nothing for his dead. There was no revenge he could take._

_Arthur's hands were shaking with the need to do _something.

_A young man to his left groaned, still alive, for now. Arthur saw the blood running down his arm._

_The man noticed his stare. He looked from his arm to the nation. "Well?" he finally said. "You gonna jus' sit there, or you gonna help?"_

_Arthur jumped, but got on hands and knees and crawled over. He reached under his hoodie to tear a scrap off his shirt, and bound the man's forearm above the three inch gash which still had glass stuck in it. _Tourniquet to last until hospital treatment_, he thought distantly._

"_Thanks, man." The person was younger than Arthur had first thought, barely eighteen. "Could'na done that meself."_

_Arthur nodded mutely. He ruffled the kid's hair, leaving blood streaked through it, and looked around for more survivors. He could still do something for the living, after all._

Arthur shuffled through his front door. Unlocked? That couldn't be right.

It was observed abstractly, like he was some distance from the situation.

He had to focus. He had to _plan_.

_Clump. Clump. Clump. Clump._

He let go of the door and it slammed behind him. The house fell silent as the footsteps also stopped. Arthur tapped a foot experimentally. No, he'd thought so, the footsteps weren't his. He wasn't wearing combat boots.

"Arthur? Y'okay?"

Alfred had to be talking from a long way away, because he'd certainly never be that quiet.

"Iggy? Talk to me, man." _Even if you only yell, Don't call me that!_

Arthur lifted his head to look the American in the eye. "What's there to talk about?" he said. "I now know _exactly _what you went through four years ago." His hands were shaking. Arthur balled them into fists to hide it.

Alfred's mind raced. Arthur's voice was deceptively light, but his green eyes were _burning_.

"I know the burning, the _hatred_. You were right, you know, back then. Why'd we give a _fuck_ for them?" Arthur's voice rose to a yell.

"No!" Alfred didn't raise his voice to match Arthur's, but it was as urgent. "We can't be right about that! You've been telling me these last few years that the ultimate goal must be peace, for _everyone_. Don't tell me you're giving up!"

"They were British. Three of them were British and one lived here anyway. They were _mine_, and they killed _my _own_, their _own." He shook his head, and seemed to get a hold of himself. "I'm not giving up, Alfred. I just have a new task to get on with." He flashed an eerie smile, eyes focused on something just past Alfred's shoulder. Arthur nodded to himself, decisively. "Would you excuse me?" He shoved past the American and made his way to his kitchen.

Alfred blinked. What was Arthur..? It clicked. "Oi, no!" He blurted out, catching the Englishman's arm before he was out of reach. "We're going to the lounge, you're sitting down with a whiskey and you're lying down 'til your head's on straight again."

Arthur struggled. "But I've got to get out! I've got to do _something_ for them!"

"How'd you think you got those?" Alfred yelled back, looking at the stains on his hoodie. "I bet your shirt's ripped to rags under that."

Arthur's reply caught in his throat as it struck him how well the American knew him. Instead of shouting, it came out in a whisper. "Not for the living, for the dead. Have to do something, but the bombers- dead already. Find the plotters. Punish _them._" His eyes hardened. "And you aren't going to stop me." Arthur wrenched his hand free and headed for the kitchen, turning his back on the other nation.

Alfred stood in the hall and waited for _England _to return. There was only this way to the front door.

Arthur came back, face washed and hands clean, but eyes no less furious. His plan was obvious, which made Alfred feel a lot better about his own decision.

"Sorry, Iggy," he said cheerfully, falsely. "But you'd regret this more than one of your worst hangovers."

England paused, and turned to him. "Alfred? What are you playing at now?"

Alfred gave him a wry grin. "I'm not playing here, England." He prepared himself for the fury Arthur would send his way in the morning.

Then he punched the nation's lights out.

* * *

Arthur groaned. His head was _killing_ him, and he'd only been conscious for seconds. He hadn't drunken anything yesterday, had he? Why the hell'd his head hurt so bloody much?

"Er, morning, Arthur."

Arthur raised his head, noticing too late that it made the pain increase. "What the hell happened to me?" he asked Alfred, who'd seated himself at the foot of the bed.

Alfred looked wary, like he was worried about the near future. Arthur wasn't used to the look; it implied the American had planned ahead for something. "What do you remember?" He heard Alfred reply.

Arthur was even more suspicious. "Why aren't you answering my question?"

Alfred gave an uneasy laugh. "Y'know me, have to make you curse me at least once a year. But seriously, when's the big blank space in your head start?"

About to protest that his head was _quite_ full, thank you, Arthur realised that- it wasn't. All of yesterday was one huge blank space, as Alfred had put it.

"I- I..." he stuttered."I don't remember... Alfred, what happened yesterday? I see you got back from Heathrow alright, at least."

Alfred's jaw fell open. "_Anything_? You don't remember _anything_?" When Arthur shook his head (and winced) Alfred bit his lip, muttering, "I didn't mean to hit you _that_ hard."

"You? _You_ gave me this headache? Come here, you bastard, I'll show you _exactly_ how much this hurts!" Arthur forced himself to sit up fully, ignoring the pounding in his head in favour of the pounding he was about to give his former colony.

"Arth- wait-" Alfred scrambled to his feet. "You'd have been sorrier if I hadn't done it," he said quietly, once safely out of arm's reach.

"Oh really?" Arthur snorted. "And why's that?"

_Burning. Broken rubble. Broken _people_. _

Arthur blinked, wondering what the flash in front of his eyes had been.

"_I need to _see_ it!"_

"_Every _one_ of them is special to me!"_

"_For the dead- dead already- _Punish_ them-"_

Arthur put one hand behind him for support. "Alfred?" he said uncertainly. His voice quavered.

"_You gonna help?"_

_Blond-blood-streaked hair. _

_Tavistock._

And that was the image that broke the hold Arthur had put on his memories. Tavistock Square, broken and blown apart by one cowardly _wanker_.

Even that wasn't strong enough to describe his hatred for the man.

"Artie? You okay?"

Despite himself, Arthur felt his lips curve into a smile. "You only call me that when things have gone to absolute hell," he observed.

He tried to ignore the feeling of his eyes watering.

Alfred noticed, and sat back on the bed, closer than before. "It seemed appropriate," he said. "Come here." He gestured to the space next to him.

Arthur tentatively curled up next to him, grateful for someone to hold on to as he finally fell apart.

* * *

Three days later found the American sprawled out on Arthur's couch.

"Alfred?" The American glanced away from the TV, and jumped when he saw Arthur was closer than expected.

"Hm?" He answered, hoping this would be short.

C-_rack._

"_Ouch_!" Alfred's hand whipped up to cover his already bruising cheek. "What the hell, Iggy?"

Arthur only smiled. "Payback, Alfred. It's a bitch, huh?" Arthur very deliberately scratched at his own cheek, where the bruise was finally starting to fade.

Alfred's mouth clamped shut with a click.

"Have a nice afternoon," Arthur said, leaving the American to his shows.

* * *

Alfred looked out the window with a disgusted frown. "It's meant to be summer, Artie. Why's it always _raining_?"

Arthur studied the younger nation from his seat at the kitchen table. He hadn't thought Alfred would stay for so long, but he _had_. And he'd been there for Arthur every minute of it, to help him, to stop him doing stupid things, to distract him when needed-

"Thanks, Alfred," he said.

Completely (or deliberately, Arthur couldn't tell) misunderstanding, the American replied, "C'mon! I've been here a week, and it's rained for most of that! It's not a complaint anymore, it's a fact!"

"It's only rained for five days," Arthur commented lightly.

"Five out of seven was a large enough majority to start World War Two." Alfred replied in dark contrast. Then he broke it by whining, "It sucks, Artie! Do something about it!"

"We could go out, you know. Most places have roofs."

Alfred's eyes narrowed and Arthur swallowed a sigh. "I'm not going to break, you git. You've kept me good company, and I'm not about to do something stupid anymore." He paused, wondering whether to mention it or not. "And besides-"

"You want to get to the pub?" Alfred guessed. It had been a frequent request.

"I'm a regular there! You're only making them worry by keeping me away!"

Arthur thought Alfred was suffering from enough cabin fever to agree. He was (thankfully) proved right when the younger nation growled and said, instead of 'no', "Stay with me. And keep track of what you're drinking! I'm not lugging you back here later!"

Arthur beamed, and Alfred was suddenly very glad he'd said yes to his friend's request. Arthur hadn't looked that happy in _months_.

_Although..._

He fingered his bruised cheek gently. It was a close second, as he recalled most distinctly.

* * *

"So what's this place called?" Alfred yelled over the rain and general British weather.

Arthur smirked. "You'll like it- wait and see."

"How much further is it? I'm soaked. And I'm _cold_."

"I did offer to let you share the umbrella," Arthur said. "It's just around the corner."

"Thank God." Alfred muttered, and pulled his jacket tighter around himself.

When Arthur tapped his arm, Alfred looked up and found the pub's signboard swinging a foot over his head. "The _Lobster_?" he read, taking in the picture of British redcoats in action with some disbelief.

"The owner's an American in the know with a strange sense of humour," Arthur explained. "I always said I'd bring you to meet him one day."

"A fellow countryman? Why didn't you say so earlier?" Alfred dashed for the door, given further incentive than simply 'get out of the rain'. With a fond smile, Arthur followed.

Inside was homely. The first thing Alfred noticed was the fireplace, a real one, filled with burning logs, with a pile waiting to be burnt next to it.

"C'mon," Arthur said, shaking out his umbrella. "Bar's this way."

He led Alfred through a number of tables and chairs, steering without much problem whether they were occupied or not. On reaching the bar, he hung his umbrella from a hook probably meant for a woman's handbag and said with a grin, "What's an Englishman got to do to get a decent whiskey in a place like this?"

Alfred jumped when a man appeared from under the bar. "Arthur?" He held out a hand to shake. "Was beginnin' t'worry 'bout ya."

With a pointed glance at Alfred, Arthur took the hand in one of his. "Any Yank should know you can't keep England down for long."

The barman followed Arthur's glance, and took in the tall, blonde and blue-eyed figure next to the nation. "I recognise ya, from the TV." He looked from Arthur to Alfred and back. "Nah, really?" He asked Arthur, who nodded and smiled.

He held out his hand to his own nation. "'Sa pleasure to meet ya, America," he said. "First drink's on the house for you, sir."

Beside them, Arthur had his head in his hands. "Dear God, don't call him _sir_. It'll only give him delusions of grandeur."

Alfred elbowed the Englishman to shut him up. "Alfred F. Jones at your service..." he trailed off.

"Kenneth. Call me Jack."

"Proof that he's one of yours. He's about as logical as you are," Arthur muttered, just loudly enough for them to hear.

'Jack' swatted him. Alfred wished _he_ could get away with that. "Ya know 'xactly where my logic's from," he stated. "Kenneth _Jackson_, an' I'll thank ya kindly to forget my first name now ya got it."

Alfred decided not to ask. "Then call me Alfred, please." They let go hands and Alfred gestured to a bottle. "One of those for me."

With a grin, the barman poured Alfred a measure of Jack Daniels. "An' our English friend?"

"Will stick to his Glenfiddich, thanks."

"For now," the Americans chorused. They looked at each other in understanding of mutual suffering from drunken Englishmen, and had matching half-grins on their faces.

* * *

"-an' then-"

Alfred watched in amusement as Arthur continued to tell what probably was a thrilling story to his enraptured (imaginary) audience. He shared a glance with Jack who agreed wordlessly; it was time to get the nation home. He stood up and grabbed an arm, slinging it over his shoulders.

"'Bu' _no_!' 'e yell'd, an' said 'stead- 'ey, wha're doing?" Arthur stumbled as he was pulled rather viciously off-balance. He could hear the fairies protesting, asking him to finish his story. "Alf'red?" he checked. His attacker was definitely tall enough.

"Night, Jack!" The American called to the bar. Arthur automatically followed suit, realising he was being pulled away from the bar before his alcohol-addled brain could work out why that was a problem.

"'ang na minute! Wasn' done yet!"

Alfred ignored the nation's increasingly rude yells as they neared his house, hoping that the neighbours were both heavy sleepers and well-used to Arthur's temper. None too sober himself, he propped the Englishman up against the doorframe as he fished his key from his pocket. With a click, the door swung open, and Alfred tried to think why he should have held it shut for a minute.

_Thunk_. "Ah- _ow_! Li'l warning, 'fred?"

Arthur was sprawled over his carpet, struggling to get on his elbows with a mutinous expression set on his face.

"Shit," Alfred mumbled. "'ere." He held out his hand.

Rather than pulling himself up, Arthur took the proffered limb and _yanked_, laughing when Alfred landed on the floor beside him.

"Wha's that for?" Alfred asked, more annoyed than himself than anything. _Hell hath no fury like a prideful Englishman_, he'd decided long ago. "Don' tell me, payback, right?"

Arthur gave him a wide smile. _Like a bipolar, prideful Englishman,_ Alfred amended. "Knew y'could be taught," the older nation smirked.

Alfred shook his head in despair. Why did he bother? "C'mon, upstairs," he said, getting to his hands and knees and this time actively pulling Arthur up with him.

"Onl'if you stay," Arthur muttered.

Alfred snorted. "Where else'm I gonna go?"

"Wi'me. Stay wi' me," Arthur repeated, more clearly.

Alfred froze. It felt like there was a whole conversation he'd somehow missed in those three, slurred words.

He played it off. "Aw, how can I resist? D'ya know how cute you look when you're slurring your speech?"

Arthur glared, and stomped off alone up the stairs. "'m _not_ cute!" He hissed. "Stay there f'all I care, git."

The more sober American tactfully ignored the wavering path he took, and the cursing as he tripped over the last step.

Once the Englishman had disappeared, Alfred declined the nice rug Arthur had suggested in favour of the living room sofa. He figured he'd just dodged a bullet, so why couldn't he settle down and sleep? Okay, the sofa wasn't particularly comfortable but it had never stopped him sleeping previously.

"_Stay wi' me."_

Alfred shook his head to clear it. "Arthur says all kinds of things when he's drunk," he reasoned with himself. "He won't remember a word of it, anyway." That was certain due to the second bottle of Arthur's Scottish whiskey that Jack had brought up from the cellar, after the first was (single-handedly) finished.

Scarily, Alfred had almost said, _yeah, okay, _before his mind had panicked on him. He'd nearly succumbed to the bright, open eyes.

He was beginning to suspect there _was_ some sort of magic about Arthur, despite how he denied it when they were in public. His eyes were amazing.

Alfred shot up. "I did _not_ just think that," he stated. He thought of green eyes again. "Oh, _hell_," he moaned, burying his face in a cushion. 'Hell' didn't quite manage to cover it. He collapsed back and turned on his side, wondering exactly how a nation went about _not_ admitting... like... for his father-figure-turned-oppressive-bastard-turned-good-(best)friend. Because if it was giving _Alfred_, renowned nation of the free, so much trouble, he could only imagine how Arthur would react if he knew.

Two hours of tossing and turning later, Alfred admitted defeat. Yes, Arthur was cute even when he wasn't slurring his speech. And what was an age gap between beings that were essentially immortal?

Four minutes after that, the exhausted American was passed out on the couch, dreaming away.

* * *

Alfred woke up to the sounds of someone moving around in the kitchen. He stretched out his back and shoulders, before cursing suddenly; _Arthur_ was in the kitchen.

It wasn't heroism, merely a matter of survival depending on his ejecting the other nation and taking up residence himself instead.

Fearing the worst, Alfred tiptoed around the corner. Arthur was seated at the table with a cup of tea. Alfred thanked God silently, that he hadn't got around to 'cooking' any food yet.

He scuffed a foot to announce his presence. Arthur looked up blearily. "Morning," he mumbled.

The older nation had all the classic signs of a hangover of monumental proportions. For the second time that morning, Alfred found himself relieved; his secret (and slip-up) from the night before was safe. Surely Arthur couldn't have remembered anything?

With a grin, Alfred also realised he had a prime opportunity. He couldn't let it go to waste.

"Good _morning_, Iggy," he chirped brightly. He moved over to the window, flinging the curtains back.

Arthur glared.

"You got a slight headache? Blurred vision? I'd say, _seeing things?_, but for you that's normal." Alfred's grin didn't fade.

Arthur's glare became heavier.

"Are the lights too bright for you?"

Arthur brought a hand up to massage his temple. "If you value your sunny disposition and intact expression, Alfred, I suggest you kindly _shut up_ and pull the _God-damned curtains_ shut again," he growled.

"Since you asked so nicely..." Alfred left the sentence open.

Arthur relaxed minutely, perhaps expecting a small reprieve for his pounding head.

Alfred hit the light switch, flooding the room with fluorescent light along with sun.

Arthur jumped and growled low in his throat, one hand flung over his eyes.

Alfred _ran_. He figured he'd need the head start.

* * *

He couldn't resist making the remark as they saw the girl in the airport's waiting room. It was _begging_ to be said.

Because seeing Arthur in his dark green suit, handing the ball back to the little blonde kid with bottle-green ribbons in her plaits was freakin' _adorable_.

"You should grow your hair out, Iggy. I bet you'd be just as cute with a coupla those ribbons in _your _hair."

His only saving grace was that it wasn't exactly what he'd thought, which was more like, _they'd match your eyes _perfectly.

Arthur stopped moving. Slowly, he turned his head to regard the American, who'd begun cursing himself the moment the comment left his mouth.

Arthur tilted his head back in challenge. "I'm _not_ cute," he stated, enunciating each word perfectly.

Whatever Alfred had been planning to say dried up in his throat. Arthur _had_ remembered. Why hadn't he said anything? Alfred racked his mind for something, _anything_ to reply with.

"_This is the final boarding call for flight VX 243 to Washington. I repeat, this is the final boarding call for flight-"_

Both nations started, the moment broken.

"That's your flight. You'd better get going," Arthur said neutrally.

Alfred blinked. "Erm- uh-"

"I don't think they'd hold the flight, even for you," Arthur stood and brushed his clothes down.

Alfred seized the easy opening. "'Course they would, a hero like me." He paused. "Arthur-"

"Keep in touch, Alfred." Arthur had already turned to leave.

Something inside Alfred gripped his chest and told him not to let the other nation go like that. Arthur had practically been _teasing_ him, just seconds ago. Where had that Arthur gone?

He reached out and grabbed Arthur's shoulder, spinning him around.

"What-"

Alfred didn't give himself a chance to think. He'd always worked best on the fly, anyway.

He pressed his lips to Arthur's, lightly, just enough to show deeper intention for the next time they met face-to-face.

He broke away, meeting shocked green eyes for a fraction of a second. Not anger, not hate, not a-whole-lot-of-things-he-didn't-want-to-think-about, but surprise. And lurking in the background, hope?

Arthur reached up and grabbed his coat collar, pulling him down for a second kiss. It was no longer than the first, but this time it was green eyes assessing blue, checking _their_ reaction when he pulled away.

Arthur smiled, reassured by what he saw. "Keep in touch, Alfred," he repeated in a happier tone of voice. Alfred nodded, struck dumb. He watched the shorter nation casually walk away, before remembering that as he was the one on a time limit, he should probably do the same.

At the door, he permitted himself one look back.

Arthur was kneeling next to the little girl, the blonde with the pigtails and green ribbons. And even though Alfred had never professed to be an expert in lip-reading, he was pretty certain Arthur had just thanked her.

With a grin, he made his way to the boarding room, glad for once that he'd not thought before opening his mouth.

* * *

_27/10/2005. New York._

It had only been a couple of months. Hell, it'd been a couple of days since he'd spoken to Arthur on the phone.

Alfred missed him.

It was a disturbing feeling. It started off warm in the centre, before cooling around the edges and telling him something was _wrong_.

And the wrong thing was that Arthur was on the other side of an ocean from him. How had that possibly felt right for the previous three hundred years?

He picked up his phone and dialled the only number he'd ever bothered memorising, only to have the engaged signal ring in his ear. Alfred stared at the phone like it was a foreign object (never mind that it _was_ a present from Kiku, the latest prototype or something).

What was he going to do now?

Thinking about it, Alfred was glad Arthur hadn't picked up. Beyond _hi, I missed you!_ he had no idea what he'd say.

He cast his eyes around the room, catching sight of the writing set he'd not used in years lying abandoned on his desk.

Alfred's face broke out into a grin. _That_ was an idea.

* * *

_New York, America. Letter dated 27/10/2005. _

_Dear Arthur,_

_This has bugged me for centuries now, so I figured I'd set you straight._

_You are a lousy penpal. You have no idea how to address a letter properly, if you even use a name in the first place instead of 'hey!' or more likely, 'oi! Git!'_

_Though that might just be when you're writing to me._

_Don't worry, you eventually improved. You started replying, for one._

_I reckon I should've got you drunk _years_ ago, or at least listened to you more when you _were _drunk (because let's face it, it's quite the common occurrence) 'cause hey, you never know, maybe you'd actually be able to write a decent letter._

_It's too late for that, though. I reckon I should teach you the wonders of e-mail, instead._

_You need a young outlook to help you in your old age (I won't say senility, but only 'cause you've been insane for years). And who else would you count on but -your- the hero?_

_Talk soon, hopefully,_

_Alfred_

* * *

Arthur looked from the letter in his hands to the translation he'd painstakingly copied onto his own paper.

It could only make him smile.

_Original language: Americanese (also known as Alfrese)_

_Translation:_

_Hey Iggy._

_We're gonna have troubles. And arguments. I know that, and I figure you know that._

_Wish we could have made up years ago. I miss you. Still, we're here now, so I wouldn't change the past for anything._

_I want to give this a try. For real. The future, together._

_Yes, with me. Don't be horrified. You raised me, there's only yourself to blame for how I turned out._

(At that point, Arthur suppressed a shiver. That meant he was a result of... _Francis_)

_Erm... what do you say?_

_Alfred_

* * *

Alfred switched screens when his computer beeped, telling him he had a new message.

It wasn't an address he recognised. Curious now, he clicked 'open'.

_To username: american_hero_

_From username: ruleBritannia1966_

He gave an educated guess as to the sender's identity.

_Oi, git._

Alfred hung his head, chuckling.

_Who says you can't teach your elders something new?_

There was an attached file. It had the dates for the next proposed world meeting. Arthur had volunteered to host it.

He laughed harder when he noticed Arthur hadn't bothered to sign the invitation.

* * *

_20/11/2005. London, England._

The other nations filed out slowly, chatting amongst themselves. In the normal fashion, absolutely nothing had actually happened, other than the most recent rumours being swapped and the traditional arguments breaking out.

Arthur sunk back into his seat and breathed deeply. He rested his head on the seat back, unbothered when he heard someone hop onto the table in front of him. There was only one person it could be.

Still not opening his eyes, he reached out and grabbed at Alfred's jacket. The American complied, leaning forwards to bring their lips together. Arthur smiled into the kiss.

After a good few minutes of simply kissing and stroking faces with gentle fingers, Arthur pulled back. "I want to show you something," he said, to Alfred's inquiring look. He grabbed Alfred's hand and led him through the corridors of the high-rise building until they came to the roof access.

Without pausing, Arthur opened the door and pulled the American through it. There was another set of stairs to climb before they emerged onto a level platform.

Arthur spun to face him, and Alfred was struck by how _alive_ he seemed, in the centre of his city and hundreds of metres above it. The river surface, far below, glinted with the last rays of the setting sun.

The sky was lit up with orange and pink. If he looked to his left, he could see the moon outlined in white against the purple clouds.

But when he looked to the right, he could see Arthur, and he could see what Arthur saw. Black shapes, office blocks and towers rising up into the sky, silhouettes with soft outlines.

"I love it up here," Arthur remarked, gazing at the skyline. "It always reminds me of crooked teeth."

Alfred glanced sidelong at him. "Yeah, maybe. I've never really thought about it." He cocked his head, considering. "Guess nothing's never straight," he finally said with a grin, screwing up Arthur's language just to hear the exasperated sigh from the older nation.

Arthur sighed and clipped Alfred over the ear. "I know you're doing that on purpose. I taught you better."

Alfred caught the hand in his, holding them together. "Some things I had to figure out on my own." He smiled.

Only sixty years ago, that comment would have resulted in all-out war between the nations. Alfred felt that stupid, warm feeling inside him when instead of yelling, Arthur squeezed the hand clasped with his and said softly, "I think, deep down, I had faith in you to do so all along." The warm feeling intensified when Arthur didn't let go, and they lapsed into comfortable silence.

Further words were unnecessary- even at the height of their arguments, they always _had_ understood what the other nation was trying to say.


End file.
